


A Learned Man

by SullenSiren (lorax)



Category: Young Guns (1988)
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-08 14:08:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/76413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorax/pseuds/SullenSiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doc's early years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Learned Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [P6655321 (My_Young_Friend)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Young_Friend/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Знающий человек](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003942) by [Herber_baby17](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herber_baby17/pseuds/Herber_baby17)



> Written as a stocking stuffer for P6655321/[drunken_hedghog](http://drunken-hedghog.livejournal.com/) in the 2008 [Yuletide](http://community.livejournal.com/yuletide/) challenge. Just a quick look at Doc's youth!

**A Learned Man**   
_"TELL me where is Fancy bred,  
Or in the heart, or in the head?"  
\- William Shakespeare, "Madrigal"_

When Josiah was twelve, he spent every scrap of change he came across on cheap dime novels, trading them with other boys whenever he could to read more. He sank into the stories of the old west, dreaming of gunslingers and shootouts and dusty trails.

At thirteen he put them away, picking up his mother's tattered copies of Shakespeare instead, devouring his way through lines he never really understood, ignoring the way his brothers jeered him for it. He imagined courtly, passionate love and tragedy. The look of his dreams changed, but not the stories behind them. The tales of the west were all tragedies and triumphs dressed up in leather and spurs, after all.

At fifteen Doc took to reading his uncle's medical texts, studying diagrams of the human body and reading all the ways that it could break down. He'd try to pinpoint, sometimes, where the soul, the part with the poetry and passion, really dwelled. The heart seemed too messy and too fragile to hold something so weighty, no matter how poets thought otherwise.

At sixteen he sold his father's cufflinks and his books and rode out on a cow-hocked nag of a mare that bucked him off half a dozen times before he got anywhere near Missouri.

He cleaned mugs and swept floors in the first saloon he found, and when a barfight turned rougher than normal he helped stitch one of the patrons up. The was a rough-hewn, big bastard who smelled like a dung pile and laughed loud and raucous at his own stories. He called Josiah "Doc", and offered him a spot with his boys. Doc tossed down his dish towel and rode out that morning.

He was the youngest and the cleanest. The stories of steel-eyed gunslingers and pistoleer poets seemed vastly out of place. The reality was choking dust and dirty men who'd as soon shoot you in the back as buy you a drink.

Doc was a criminal by association, not expertise. He was always outside, holding the horses while the others did the jobs, wincing at every gunshot. The oldest of the men took pity on him, teaching him to shoot. He never picked up a knack for the pistol, but Doc surprised everyone with a feel for a rifle. He was a good shot to start with, and he only got better. Of course most of the time he was shooting rabbits for a stew, but he liked that better than shooting men anyway. The first time that happened, in turned his stomach and made him sweat and shake for hours. They told him he'd get used to it, slapped him on the back and guffawed amongst themselves. Doc didn't think he wanted to get used to it.

He'd been through three gangs and a partner when Doc met John Tunstall. The older man bought him a drink in a saloon that he called a pub. He quoted Milton over his whiskey, laughing soft and polite and tipping his hat when he bid Doc goodnight.

The next night, Doc bought John a drink, and they talked about "The Jew of Malta". As they left, John tipsy enough to sway against Doc's shoulder as he stepped down into the dust of the street, a man Doc didn't recognize took a shot at John, knocking his hat from his head. Doc had his rifle in hand and had taken a shot in seconds, feeling the familiar queasy rumble and shock of panic as bullet hit flesh and the man tumbled to the ground.

John laid a hand on his shoulder and said that he was sorry Doc had to do that, but he was grateful for his life.

The next morning, John turned up, a new hat on his head and a dapper cane in his hand, his face set in a smile. A tall, chiseled young cowboy waited outside for him, watching Doc with an impassive expression, but his hand hovering protectively close to his gunbelt. John offered Doc a job, and Doc accepted.

If asked, he'd have said that he left because there was only so much a man could stand riding with men who never changed their drawers and were proud of the fact. The truth was, he left for John. John was nothing that he'd expected in a cowboy, and everything Doc hadn't known he wanted to be. He'd have followed him anywhere.

~~~


End file.
